


The Last Crow of Yharnam

by OptimumAce



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OptimumAce/pseuds/OptimumAce
Summary: One-shot. Often it is better to know nothing of the lives you take. Maintaining that detachment from the kill is all that allows us to keep carrying on. One might wonder, however, what would happen if the only way to defeat your most dangerous adversary to date, was to learn everything about them. Good luck, Hunter. May the good blood guide your way. (Lady Maria x Hunter; M for violence)





	The Last Crow of Yharnam

~*;*;*~

Grief is the most dastardly of all human emotions, if only because of its masterful capacity for deception. This is, of course, not to say that the other emotions within the realm of human capability are always predictable. However, it is grief and grief alone that never fails to not only alter our perspectives in the now, but retroactively shift those of our past. It drives all manner of madness into play, and by its banner can be done the most righteous of justice, or the most terrible of evils. Perhaps the most scathing insult paid by grief is revelation of the truth of our relationships with others.

It was this exact affliction of the soul that harried one once referred to as the “Good Hunter.” In the bloodsoaked city of Yharnam, infested by beasts and unknowable horrors, anyone might expect to find difficulty in forging bonds with the few sane survivors of the Scourge. Friends often became foes, and the afflicted begged for mercy while attempting at the same time to savage the clean. Hunters drank deeply of the blood echoes, and many became addled in the process—turning on their fellows to enhance their own power. Somehow, in all of this bedlam, the Good Hunter found in his heart the capacity to trust one solitary soul.

***

When first he met the Crow it crossed his mind to kill her before she could turn on him like Gascoigne. Then, she spoke: “ _Oh, a hunter, are ya? And an outsider? What a mess you've been caught up in. And tonight, of all nights._ ” Hers had been a matter-of-fact, almost plummy manner of speaking. It rang of understanding in a motherly sort of way—sympathetic, yet expecting.

The Crow—or Eileen, as was her given name—gifted the Good Hunter a small boon to help him on his quest and even went so far as to give him a brief lesson in Yharnamite etiquette. The exchange had been a strange one for the newly christened Hunter, but one he welcomed with cautious optimism. In a world of beasts one did well in holding tight to the remaining vestiges of humanity.

Before he next encountered Eileen, the Good Hunter managed to deduce her station as one of the mysterious Hunters of Hunters. It had taken a little digging and a short conversation with Gehrman, but his research put the Good Hunter at ease. As a hunter of the blood-addled and insane, she thinned the danger to those still fighting the good fight. Respect blossomed in his heart, and he greeted her warmly when they crossed paths outside the Cathedral Ward.

Eileen warned him of her quarry down by the Tomb of Oedon—the same tomb where the Good Hunter had slain Father Gascoigne not long before. For the first time, the Good Hunter felt concern for the wellbeing of another in Yharnam. The Crow no longer basked in the springtime of her youth, he could hear it in her voice and see it in the mild lope of her gait. It would be folly to ask her to give up the pursuit, and it would be equally as foolish to insist he tag along.

Instead, the Good Hunter followed her to the tomb. There awaited Henryk, as mad as she’d claimed he would be. At the first clash of her blades and Henryk’s, the Good Hunter joined the fray. The maddened old hunter proved unable to overcome the pair and at last succumbed to the bite of Ludwig’s Holy Blade. The Good Hunter remembered looking into Henryk’s deeply bloodshot eyes, sword buried to the hilt in his chest; he remembered thinking that a good man had once been behind those eyes.

“ _Rest now,_ ” the Good Hunter told him. “ _Your watch is over, your vigil has been kept. The Hunt is over for you, find peace beyond the Dream._ ” The words just tumbled from his lips without prompt, his spirit moved by the sadness of such an ending to a once honorable Hunter. The Good Hunter had eased Henryk to the ground, and Eileen placed a hand on his shoulder.

“ _That wasn't necessary of ya, but you have my thanks,_ ” Eileen had told him. “ _You put him to rest with dignity, and that is admirable._ ”

The Good Hunter shared his blood vials with her to bolster the healing of her injuries, and then the two went their separate ways in the hope of coming together again.

It all went to hell though, hadn’t it? The Forbidden Woods, Byrgenwerth, and Rom. To get to the heart of the nightmare in Yharnam, the Blood Moon needed to be freed and the truth beyond the bulwark exposed. Fortune toyed with the Good Hunter, and when finally he found The Crow again, she sat wheezing in a pool of her own blood.

The Crow assured him that she would be alright, and she insisted that her quarry inside the Grand Cathedral was hers and hers alone. Eileen begged the Good Hunter not to be so foolish as to challenge the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst.

Rage the likes of which he’d never felt coursed through him like fire, and the Good Hunter proved himself too stubborn to listen for a second time. He marched into the Grand Cathedral to face the devil that had so badly mauled Eileen, intent on putting an end to the living antithesis of her Covenant.

The two battled with such intense hatred that the Good Hunter thought they might both morph into Cleric Beasts right then and there. When the end drew near and the Bloody Crow lay hemorrhaging and broken on the disintegrated bones of Vicar Amelia, his fury outweighed his honor. The Good Hunter kicked aside the Bloody Crow’s sword and hauled him up by his cloak. He denied the villain an honorable death by blade and instead shoved the muzzle of his pistol beneath the chin of his helm. When the hammer crashed against the flint, the pistol bucked and a quicksilver slug burrowed deep into the blood-drunk hunter’s skull.

The Good Hunter dragged the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst’s corpse down the steps to where Eileen rested. He dropped the cadaver at her feet and came to kneel beside her, expecting her to be angry with him for his disobedience. She should have been angry with him; why hadn’t she been? Perhaps because she’d lied to him—Eileen the Crow would not be alright. In retrospect it became clear to the Good Hunter that she only wanted him to leave to spare him from watching her die; he was glad he stayed, though. At least she didn’t have to die alone.

Taking the older woman into his arms, he sat beside her and shared his warmth until she passed away. That time, however, she did not fade into the dream; her body stayed behind, soul having escaped the endless night of the Hunt. The Good Hunter felt the blow of her passing like a Kirkhammer to the chest, and he sobbed like a child cradling her a while longer.

When finally he managed to calm down, he resolved himself to see Eileen receive the sky burial she deserved. The Good Hunter carried her to the cliffs beside the Grand Cathedral and set her body high where the carrion birds would find it. From her, he reluctantly inherited the Blade of Mercy and the Hunter Caryll rune. Eileen would not be the last Hunter of Hunters, he would take up her mantle and see the grim duty through to whatever end.

With his final goodbyes whispered to the cliffside vista, the Good Hunter returned to where he left the corpse of the Bloody Crow. He took the Cainhurst armor and the crowfeather garb from the fallen psychopath and donned it himself. Eileen’s blade and the armor of the man who killed her then both belonged to the Good Hunter, reminders of what he’d lost and the vengeance he’d taken. From that point on he abandoned all pretense of “good” and adopted a new moniker: the Last Crow of Yharnam.

***

The Last Crow jerked awake, head snapping first left, then right. He must have fallen asleep while resting at the lamp. _Did_ Hunters sleep, or had it just been a slip into the deep recesses of his memory? Hard to say, really. When had he last dreamed of Eileen—of their friendship and the death he could not spare her from? Time did not abide by its own rules in Yharnam, not anymore. The eternal night of the Blood Moon stretched on and on, days blurring seamlessly into weeks, weeks into months, and perhaps even months into years.

Carving his way through the horrors of Yharnam and the secrets of both the Healing Church and Mensis proved a trying task. Something happens to the mind when subjected to painful death over and over only to return and try it again. The Last Crow came to understand very well how Gehrman could brand the Hunter’s Dream a curse.

Sometimes the Hunter of Hunters wondered after a way to die once and for all. In these rare instances he always concluded that he was being selfish. The Last Crow made a promise to Eileen to carry on her duty and to see it through once and for all; the Nightmare must be tamed. He swallowed a hard lump of bitterness, steeling himself for the next leg of his journey through the Hunter’s Nightmare.

Sitting in the Lumenwood Gardens amidst the celestial ashes of the Living Failures, there were only two places the Last Crow could go: back into the research hall, or into the Astral Clocktower where Lady Maria guarded the secrets to the heart of the Nightmare. They said she had been one of the first Hunters, a student of Gehrman himself. Skilled, relentless, powerful—all things the Last Crow had gleaned of the woman from letters, journals, and hearsay.

He scoffed aggrievedly, clutching the hilt of Ludwig’s sword and freeing it from its greatsword sheath with a decisive yank. Old Hunter, new Hunter, Cainhurst Hunter, Healing Church Hunter, it made no difference to the Last Crow; she was just another in a long line of unhinged Hunters, and she would die just the same.

Approaching the massive brass double doors the Last Crow holstered his pistol and pressed his gun hand to the frame. He put all of his weight into pushing the left door open, struggling to move the solid metal slab enough to step inside. When finally he’d created enough space to comfortably fit through the gap, the Last Crow entered the Astral Clocktower.

Honestly, he expected something far more regal than what he found. “Astral Clocktower” sounded fairly grand, but all that greeted the Last Crow was a vast, open room with many of the floorboards torn up or misaligned. On the far side of the expanse, a lone figure sat in a high back chair at the base of a short staircase. The Last Crow quickly re-drew his pistol and brandished his sword, expecting the figure to rise from their seat and procure a weapon of their own.

Much to his surprise, nothing happened; the figure did not so much as stir, though surely they’d seen him enter. Cautiously, the Last Crow approached the seat. As he drew near and the silhouette too shape, he could see that it was indeed Lady Maria. Something did not seem right, however—even beyond her indifference to his presence. A wide pool of old congealed blood spread across the dusty floorboards beneath her chair, and a long, running smear of crimson stained her scarf and garb below the throat.

The Last Crow moved even closer, bending forward towards her. Maria appeared to be dead, but he could not find an obvious wound on her throat as one might expect from the blood on her scarf. He reached out towards her intending to check for a pulse.

Suddenly, Maria snatched his hand by the wrist with speed that caught even the experienced Hunter of Hunters off guard. She pulled him down towards her with surprising strength and leaned forward in her chair until they were face to face. Her smoky blue eyes burrowed into his as if she could see them through the ornate faceplate of his Cainhurst helm. Again the Last Crow found himself jostled; the telltale signs of blood drunkenness did not present in her eyes as they should have—no angry bloodshot streaks, no discolored pupil, no blackened veins.

“A corpse, should be left well alone,” Maria chided gently. Slowly, she released his hand, allowing her gloved fingers glide along his gauntlet as she did so. The Last Crow leapt back from her as soon as he was clear, readying his sword and flintlock. She could have easily gutted him from nave to his chops, why let him go?

Lady Maria rose easily from her chair and reached for her weapon with a confident sort of calm; it stirred an unease in the Last Crow that he’d not felt in a long time. He tightened his grip on his sword and settled into a battle-ready stance.

“Oh, I know very well how the secrets beckon so sweetly. Only an honest death will cure you now,” she explained, separating her double-sided blade into two separate swords. “Liberate you from your wild curiosity.” The Last Crow felt his mouth go dry, the presence of this woman infinitely more intimidating than he could have ever imagined.

A draft swept through the clocktower, and the crowfeather cloak billowed around the Last Crow. The wind plucked a lone feather from the cloak and drew it up in front of his face, floating in suspense for but a moment before being carried away. Stony resolve hardened in his chest; was he not a Hunter of Hunters? Did he not pledge himself to ending the Nightmare? His was the cloak of the man who killed Eileen and proof that he reigned atop the food chain. Grief strummed a chord on his heartstrings and the Last Crow remembered his rage—the fire that drove him to kill the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst, and the same fire that would surely see Lady Maria to her final death.

“Lady Maria, the time has come for the secrets of the Church to die, and you with them,” he announced, pointing the tip of his sword toward her and cocking the hammer of his pistol.  
  
“Were such things so easy to put to rest,” she mused, and the Last Crow thought for the briefest moment that he detected a note of sadness in her voice.

The Last Crow snapped his pistol up and fired at Maria. She juked to the right with such speed that she was able to close the distance between them before he could even register that his shot went wide. Maria swiped at him with the shorter of her two blades and the Last Crow had just enough time to turn so that his greatsword sheath took the blow.

He countered with a swipe of his own blade—Maria backstepping to avoid its cutting arc—and again when he chased his first strike with another. In one fluid motion, the Last Crow used the momentum of his second strike to carry the blade around for an easy slide into the sheath on his back. He locked the blade in and twisted his body to bring the massive trick weapon around in a heavy overhead blow.

This forced Maria back further this time, the heavy greatsword smashing into the floor and splintering half a dozen floorboards with its weight. She appeared utterly unfazed by the Last Crow, but this only served to stoke the flames in his belly.

“Yours is the armor of Cainhurst, but you do not appear to dabble in bloodtinge,” she commented, circling him while the Hunter of Hunters removed his blade from the floorboards. “Your sword is of the Healing Church, yet you are not of their membership. Your garb, I’ve never seen it before. Tell me, Hunter, what are you?” Maria sounded genuinely curious and clearly unflapped by their duel.

“I am a Hunter of Hunters,” the Last Crow growled, righting his blade and turning to face his opponent once again. “The instrument of destruction brought to bear on Hunters drunk with blood or maddened by the Scourge of Beasts, and _you,_ Lady Maria are on my list!” He charged at her, swinging wide with his massive weapon. Maria did not escape the bite of his steel this time, a wide gash splitting her thigh and buckling her knee.

She let the momentum carry her around in a twirl, and before the Last Crow could recover from his swing, Maria swung her sword into the side of his helmet. Stars exploded in his skull as the impact jostled his brain. The Last Crow stumbled to the side and twisted the other way with his greatsword in an attempt to keep her back. Maria stomped the weapon into the floor by its flat side as it sailed past her. She followed up with a cut to the Last Crow’s underarm on the dominant side, the sharpened edge cutting deep into the limb.

He dropped the greatsword with a howl of pain, but she silenced the cry by closing the distance between them and running him through the stomach. Maria embraced the Last Crow with malapropos gentleness while she eased him to the floor.

“Return to the Dream, Hunter of Hunters,” she cooed. “Return where you belong, leave the secrets of this place well enough alone.” The Last Crow dissolved into soft white light, fading back into the Hunter’s Dream.

***

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately— that had not been the last Lady Maria saw of the so-called Hunter of Hunters. Time and again he returned from the Hunter’s Dream to challenge her guardianship of the secrets kept by the Church and Brygenwerth. Already awakened from her slumber, there was little for the woman to do but wait for his next visit. Honestly, she did not know what she would do if the man _did not_ return. Would she simply remain there in the Astral Clocktower for eternity while the Nightmare spun endlessly around her?

Every time the Hunter in crow’s feathers entered, they fought, and she killed him—with varying degrees of injury to herself, of course. The blood echoes siphoned from his demise refreshed her, however, and left Maria ready for the next encounter. In this way the cycle continued, over and over until she lost count of his visits.

Maria found herself puzzled, troubled, and intrigued all at once by the tenacious Hunter. She truly could not remember exactly what secrets she guarded, knowing only that the compulsion to keep her vigil outweighed everything else. What did he know that she did not to drive him to such lengths? Why now, after all this time did she question her duty? Maria sought to remember, clawing at the wall of blankness that locked a part of her mind away.

Sitting in her chair, she kept her head propped up on a fist and right leg crossed over the left. Drumming her fingers on the arm of her seat, she thought back to her most recent encounter with the Hunter of Hunters.

“ _I thought you loathed the use of blood_ ,” the peculiar Hunter in crow’s feathers told her. Maria had struck him with a cutting arc of blood from her Rakuyo. It cut deeply enough into his thigh to render the leg useless and drop him into a genuflect. She had been approaching him to deal the finishing blow when he spoke, causing her to pause. A genuine look of surprise played across her features which the crowfeather hunter must have seen, for he tipped his head down and rasped a wheezing chuckle at her.

“ _What?_ ” Maria asked. She’d heard him the first time, but could not quite fathom that someone else might know of her preferences.

“ _I thought you loathed the use of blood,_ ” he repeated. “ _Your weapon, it’s one of skill and finesse—not the usual Cainhurst weapon._ ” The Hunter in crow’s feathers looked back up at her as if waiting for her to challenge his claim. She could not, of course, as he spoke the truth.

“ _How do you know that?_ ” She asked, note of disbelief still stubbornly refusing to leave. “ _How_ could _you know that?_ ”

“ _I am a Hunter of Hunters, it is my job to know my quarry._ ” It hadn’t been the answer she wanted, but she couldn’t exactly force him to elaborate. As it was they were already in the midst of trying to kill one another. “ _Come on then, finish it._ ” That snapped Maria back from her thoughts and into the reality of their situation.

“ _What?_ ” She asked again, sounding stupid to her own ears. Of course she knew what he meant, but it just threw her to have it come so _expectantly_ from him. Had their back and forth become so regular that even the brutal conclusions were normalized?

“ _Have we been at it so long that you’ve lost your hearing to old age, or have I just managed to deafen you in the duel?_ ” There he sat at the mercy of her blade, _teasing_ her. Maria hoped to the gods that she hadn’t flushed when he flustered her so, but with skin as pale as hers she expected the worst. In that moment she realized that she didn’t want to kill the crowfeather clad Hunter.

“ _What is your name, Hunter of Hunters?_ ” She queried smoothly, recovering as well as she could from her blunder. It must have been his turn to be taken by surprise; his helmeted head tipped to the side quizzically. “ _You know mine, what of yours?_ ”

“ _The Last Crow of Yharnam,_ ” he told her after a long pause. She arched a delicate white brow at him.

“ _That is a title, not a name,_ ” she countered. “ _What is your_ given _name?_ ” Again he met her with silence. Lady Maria had been about to voice her impatience when he finally spoke.

“ _Why do you care to know?_ ” Maria didn’t know how to answer that question, and instead used the opportunity to finish their duel. She approached the defeated Hunter of Hunters brandishing her Rakyuo.

“ _We’ll talk again next time, maybe then you will see fit to offer your name._ ” She drove the blade into his heart with a sick crunch as it split his ribs, granting him a swift death and leaving Lady Maria alone in the tower once more. She would need the time until their next meeting to formulate an answer to his question.

Even with the days gone by, she had yet to find an answer. Why _did_ she care to know? Initially, Maria settled on wanting to know more of him only because he seemed to know a fair deal of her, but that didn’t capture the whole truth did it? When he first came to the clocktower, the Last Crow had been naught but fire and brimstone—every bit of him dripped with hate and venom. Over time, though, the fire cooled and his disposition evened out to something much more...respectful?

Dutifully he came to cross swords with her over and over, feeling a little stronger than he had the time before. Maria knew one day that he would overwhelm her; he must have been out into Yharnam between their duels, gathering blood echoes to hone himself until he accrued enough power to clinch victory and remove her from his path. What drove him so endlessly to pursue the secrets she guarded, and why then, if she needed to die did he allow his flame to cool? Maria found this seemingly contradictory behavior maddening.

She sighed softly, half-lidded stare fixed on the massive brass doors on the far side of the clocktower. The half-truth answer would have to suffice for the time being; at the very least it might sate the Last Crow’s curiosity enough to get a name from him.

***

Elsewhere, the Last Crow wrestled with similar internal turmoil. Thankfully, there were plenty of distractions to keep him from wallowing as Lady Maria did in her lonesome tower. The horrors of the Nightmare cared little for one Hunter’s toiling, and It suited the Last Crow just fine. He needed their blood echoes regardless.

“Blood! Now!” Demanded the twisted incarnation of what surely had once been a noble Hunter. It swung its massive club-like beastcutter at the Last Crow, who nimbly evaded the blow by ducking under the horizontal arc. The glistening siderite Blade of Mercy flashed as the Hunter of Hunters dashed past his opponent and severed the Nightmare Hunter’s leg clean from its body.

It collapsed to the dirt, bellowing incomprehensible words of anger and agony. Even as the Last Crow approached to deal the final blow, the twisted Hunter flailed its beastcutter at him seethingly. The Hunter of Hunters pulled the Blade of Mercy into its twin form and used both blades to strike the beastcutter from the crippled horror’s hand.

“You filthy beast!” It gurgled at him, blood gushing from the stump of its severed leg. Pupilless yellow eyes bulged in their sockets as if willing the Last Crow to keel over dead out of sheer directed _spite_. The Hunter of Hunters plunged both siderite blades into the twisted Hunter’s chest and it fell still. Much like the many deaths of the Last Crow, the creature began to dissolve. Instead of light however, it _deliquesced_ into tainted blood, soaking the dust to be reborn into the Nightmare in due course.

The Last Crow took in the blood echoes of his fallen foe and snapped the twin siderite blades back into one. Blood echoes had been secondary to his purpose in coming to this part of the Nightmare; in fact, blood echoes had been secondary for quite some time. After his first meeting with Lady Maria the Last Crow developed an obsession with the guardian of the Astral Clocktower.

It had not been the same sort of mania that afflicted Gehrman so thoroughly and led to the creation of the Plain Doll. No, the Last Crow’s obsession was that of one dedicated fully to the destruction of a foe. Never before had he been so outclassed by an enemy, and the resentment that created drove him to lengths he’d never gone before. The Last Crow had destroyed the man who killed Eileen, yet Lady Maria dismantled him with _ease_. It was a bitter pill to swallow—even by _his_ standards.

Day after day the Last Crow gathered each and every scrap of information he could about the Lady of the Astral Clocktower, all the while slaughtering each and every horror that crossed his path and fortifying his power. So he scrounged, and savaged, and fed the Blade of Mercy like his mentor before him. It didn’t have the intended effect.

Stepping over the bloody pool that had once been the deranged Hunter, the Last Crow moved into the small Church archive. Various scrolls and record books filled shelves lining all four walls of the small stone room. A lone desk sat in the middle, long ago collapsed under its own weight from wood rot. Parchments littered the floor, many faded from having been left exposed without cover for who knows how long.

Knowing that which he sought very well by that point, the Last Crow began the tedious process of sifting through the documents intact enough to read. Perhaps the one benefit of an endlessly arrested timeline was the ability to see a task from start to finish regardless of the hours spent at the grind.

When the strain of constant reading began to throb behind his eyes, the Last Crow righted a few of the candles on the collapsed desk and lit them. Hoping that an improvement in lighting would ease the stress on his eyes, he continued to read. Page after page passed beneath his scrutiny until finally, as the candles burned down to their final inch of wick and wax, he found an article of merit.

At first he thought it to be another piece like those he’d already found: patient journals singing her praises, lore of her becoming one of the first Hunters, or letters detailing her guardianship of the Astral Clocktower. No, it appeared to be a report filed to Byrgenwerth—how it ended up in Healing Church archives, the Last Crow was sure he didn’t know.

He began to read the report uncertain of what to expect. With every turn of the page uncertainty evolved into horror, which eventually developed into full blown revulsion. A small fishing hamlet had been blessed by contact with a Great One known as Kos. The leading minds of Byrgenwerth dispatched Hunters to collect the “eyes on the inside” from the villagers and search out their true prize: the afterbirth of the pregnant Kos.

The Last Crow’s stomach churned like stormy ocean waters, threatening to send caustic bile up the back of his throat. By the orders of Byrgenwerth, the Hunters butchered each and every citizen of the hamlet and harvested their Kin-touched flesh as if they were nothing more than hunted _game_. Though the greatest sin of all awaited discovery at the end of the report. The Hunter expedition found Kos in labor on the beach. Unwilling to wait, or perhaps fearful that should they wait the Great One might strike them down for their transgressions against the village, they murdered Kos and cut the infant Great One from its belly. The Hunters harvested the still-living newborn Great One, and its dying cries were felt throughout the land all the way to Yharnam.

It all clicked into place; so many letters he found referred to Lady Maria’s disgust and abandonment of the Hunter’s life—how she cast her beloved Rakuyo into a well when she could stomach its sight no longer. _That_ is why she’d taken up looking after the patients of the Healing Church research halls. The things the Last Crow had heard from the patients on his way to the Lumenwood Gardens made sense now. Maria had been kind to them, tended them. She wanted to atone for what she’d done, for the guilt that surely ate at her like a worm in an apple.

The Healing Church hadn’t cared for her guilt, and the experiments grew increasingly twisted. Patients became victims, and the failures left the afflicted in a state worse than death. It must have been horrible to watch what was supposed to be atonement devolve into another foray into unforgivable monstrousness.

Through the course of his studying Lady Maria the Last Crow had softened to her. He learned more of the former Hunter than he ever expected to, but to his chagrin none of it pointed to a blood-addled monster. The Last Crow had been unable to admit this to himself until that very moment standing amidst the ruined archive with her tragic story penned out for him in iron gall ink. She did not behave as would a blood drunk Hunter because she was _not_ a blood drunk Hunter—she abandoned the blood. Maria did what even Eileen could not, but what had it earned her but damnation in the Nightmare?

Drawing back his cloak, the Last Crow folded up the report and slid it into the pouch containing the journal with his other findings on Lady Maria. It felt about time for his next visit to the clocktower, but one question lingered in the forefront of his mind: if she had so vehemently sought atonement, why did she fight so hard to keep him from the heart of the Nightmare? Unless, of course, she couldn’t remember.

***

“Garvan.” Lady Maria jumped slightly in her seat, lost so deeply in thought that she failed to notice the return of her peculiar crowfeather-clad visitor.

“Garvan?” She echoed him curiously, uncrossing her legs and rising to her feet. As per usual she retrieved her Rakuyo, but did not ready it as her visitor had himself not even drawn his weapon—it hardly seemed sporting to take advantage of an unready opponent.

“That’s my given name,” he said evenly. “Garvan.”

“I see,” she said, sounding mildly suspicious. For what reason did he so readily offer his name when at their last meeting it might have been easier to pull a molar from his jaw? Something about the man seemed off, as if his heart had not accompanied him on his endeavour that day.

“Maria, please,” Garvan pleaded. “Please, let me by. Let us not fight today.” Maria’s face fell, frown curling her lips downward at the corners.

“You know I can’t do that,” she said, voice scarcely above a whisper.

“I know.”

“Then why ask?” It was his turn to become downcast, and Maria watched his shoulders slump beneath the mass of feathers lining his cloak.

“I had to try.” The response perplexed Maria all over again, but before she could ask his meaning, Garvan continued. “Before we duel, then, can we palaver for a spell?” Then as if sensing the hesitation in her heart he quickly added: “It is not as if company is easy to come by in these parts. I feel as if my sanity might escape me without some level of genuine interaction.”

“I,” Maria started, but hesitated. “I suppose we can.”

***

Their relationship changed from that point onward. Garvan’s every visit meant hours of simple conversation before they both reluctantly adhered to their duties. They talked and dueled, talked and dueled, over and over again. For a while Maria was _happy_ , as odd as it felt for her to admit it to herself. Having to kill Garavan endlessly certainly didn’t feel very good, but so long as she defeated him, he would come back and they could talk again.

Over time, however, suspicion began to gnaw at her like termites in a fallen tree. Certain aspects of their continued meetings didn’t quite add up. Garvan avoided particular topics of conversation avidly, and in some circumstances skirted around them with a surprising level of social guile that would have been right at home among the nobility of Cainhurst Castle.

Then there was the manner in which they fought. For as long as she could remember their duels, Garvan had been steadily growing more and more proficient. Recently, though, she’d not noted any improvement in him. In the course of their battle he would make an egregious mistake that she would exploit to defeat him, but Maria couldn’t help but begin to feel as if he’d stopped trying to win. She resolved herself to putting her theory to the test.

When Garvan came to visit her again as he always did, Maria regarded him with a narrow-eyed glare that caused the Hunter of Hunters to stop his approach towards her. Normally they sat together on the steps beneath the clockwork of the clocktower to talk, but this time Lady Maria did not intend to hold conversation.

“Is something the matter?” Garvan asked, and much to Lady Maria’s frustration he sounded genuinely concerned. They were supposed to be enemies! Somewhere along the line he forgot that—they _both_ did. Palaver was all well and good so long as they both held to their duties in the end. If he had been holding back and letting her defeat him, he was not holding up his end of the arrangement!

“We are not talking today,” she affirmed coldly. “I do not feel like it. Maybe next time, now on your guard.” Maria plucked her Rakuyo from its resting place and wasted no time dashing in on Garvan. Without having had his weapon drawn all he could do was dodge the sudden attack. He tried to protest her only once and nearly got decapitated for his trouble.

The Hunter of Hunters drew his sword finally and the two commenced their duel the proper way. This time, Maria kept a close eye on Garavan and his response to her attacks. Like clockwork a hole opened in his defenses. She moved in on it, deflecting his weapon and winding up for the kill.

Rakuyo’s tip stopped just short of his sternum, Maria glaring angrily into his helmet visor. He hadn’t tried to recover at all! Garavan intended to take the blow—to _let_ her strike him down! She pulled her blade back and shoved him hard in the chest. The crowfeather Hunter stumbled back until one of his greaves caught in the floorboards and he fell hard on his backside.

“You have been purposely throwing our bouts!” She shouted at him, venom dripping from her every word. “How long have you been jesting me?” Maria demanded, jabbing a finger at him.

“Maria, I—” he started, climbing back to his feet. Maria cut him off before he could finish, she would not have any excuses.

“How _long_ , Garvan?” She yelled again. Maria felt her eyes glaze with tears but she did not know why. A mixture of anger and hurt welled in her chest, further confusing the already jumbled mess of feelings rolling around inside.

“At least a dozen visits,” he admitted sheepishly, lowering his head. Maria felt her anger rise again and she rounded on him a second time.

“Why?” She demanded again, stabbing her Rakuyo into the floor and crossing her arms. “If your goal is the secrets I guard, then _why_ are you stopping yourself?”

“Because I don’t want to kill you, Maria!” he exclaimed, strength suddenly returning to his voice. “If I die, I return to the Dream. If-if I kill you, you will _stay_ dead. I wish I didn’t know you, but it is too late for that. I _do_ know you. I know about your disdain for the blood arts, of your apprenticeship to Gehrman, and your undying conviction to protecting Yharnam from the Scourge of Beasts. I know your favorite color is green and that you favor the lumenflower above all others. I know that you feel compassion for all your kills, and that it is only by virtue of saving others that you continued your hunt. I know even why you cast your Rakuyo into a well!” Garvan seemed to realize what he said the moment it passed his lips; the Hunter of Hunters straightened up and averted his gaze.

“What do you mean I cast my Rakuyo into a well?” His words had shocked Maria at first, but shock faded quickly into anger once again. This man knew of what she could not remember, he must! How could he be so cruel as to keep that from her?

“I’ve said too much already,” he said, backpedaling.

“Garvan, how much do you know of what I cannot remember?” She asked, voice low and threatening. Maria took a step towards him, unfolding her arms and balling her hands into fists.

“Maria, please I _can’t_ tell you,” he implored, holding his hands out before him in a helpless gesture.

“Is it that you enjoy watching me toil?” Maria accused, jabbing her finger at him again. She wore that visceral concoction of hurt and anger on her face then.

“What? No! No, I—”

“Or are you torturing me on purpose, dangling this over my head? Is it a bargaining chip—my memories held hostage in exchange for passage beyond?” Lady Maria worried her lower lip with her teeth, biting back an unexpectedly powerful urge to cry. “Is that what all of this endless talk has been? Trying to see what I cannot remember so you can lord it over me? I-I thought we were… I thought that I…” She couldn’t get the last words out as the hot presses behind her eyes finally squeezed searing tears free to run down her cheeks.

“No, Maria, that’s not it at all! I was trying to protect you!” Garvan reached up and yanked the helm from his head. Vibrant emerald green eyes stared back at her, wide and horrified at the conclusion she’d come to. His shaggy chestnut brown hair had been matted down by the helm, and the stubble on his cheeks appeared red and irritated by the faceplate.

“I don’t _need_ your protection!” Maria snapped, and she could see him recoil even through the blurring moisture in her eyes.

“I know, but I,” Garvan started to defend himself but trailed off quickly. Whatever excuse he planned must have not felt strong enough to stand.

“Everything you have, hand it over,” she commanded. “I know you keep a journal, and I am willing to wager you’ve collected the notes on your _prey_ in there.”

Maria could see in his face that he wanted to argue with her, that he wanted to offer any reason why he couldn’t comply. Instead, he reached beneath his cloak and untied a large leather hard-pouch from his belt. Garvan tossed it to her underhand, face taut with worry.

“You don’t want to know what’s in there, Maria. Please, _don’t_ do this.” It hurt her to see his face so contorted in fear—but did he fear for her, or for himself?

“I must,” she asserted. “Now go. Leave.” Again Garvan sought to protest, but whatever he saw in her face kept his lips sealed. The Hunter of Hunters placed his helm back on his head and turned to leave the clocktower. It would be the first and only time two would meet in the tower without their rendezvous concluding in death.

As soon as Garvan’s crowfeather cloak disappeared through the door, she unbuckled the leather pouch and removed his journal from within. Maria could not help herself if secrets called to her as sweetly as they did to him; she delved hungrily into the pages he’d collected and those he penned himself. Only an honest death could cure her then, liberate her from her wild curiosity.

***

Garvan worried after her from the moment he set foot outside the Astral Clocktower. When did he return? What would happen once she discovered the truth about her past—about the very secrets she guarded? The Hunter of Hunters suspected for some time that Lady Maria had taken her own life when still in the waking world. The Nightmare was a prison for Hunters who had died what _should_ have been their final death—or those who died before the Hunter’s Dream came to be. Whatever the case may be, _something_ happened to her to bring her into the Nightmare in the first place.

In a hellscape where time lost all meaning, discerning when enough arbitrary ticks of the clock had passed was nigh impossible. Instead, Garvan waited until he could stand to wait no longer and made for the lamp in the Lumenwood Gardens. Upon arrival he hastened into the Astral Clocktower, not bothering with his blade or pistol.

Lady Maria sat where he left her with his journal, appearing to have collapsed there some time before. She looked up at him, eyes haunted and puffy—he could only assume she’d been crying.

“Get away from me,” she croaked. “I hate you. I wish we had never met!.” Of all the things Garvan expected to hear, that was not one of them. The Hunter of Hunters had felt like she slapped him across the face.

“You don’t mean that,” he said softly, his inflection more of a question than a statement. Garvan stepped back in spite of himself, staggered by the force of her reproach.

“Yes, I do.” She affirmed. “You’re weak and if you had never come along, none of this would have happened!” Maria had started yelling by then, projecting her cutting words as forcefully as she could. “You will never get to the heart of the Nightmare because you cannot best me! You are pathetic and doomed like Eileen! You will die like her too, an unfulfilled failure!”

Anger ripped through him like a bolt of lightning, and in a flash Garvan had drawn the Blade of Mercy from its hiding place beneath his cloak. He pounced at Maria, blood echoes boiling in his veins and demanding he drink of hers. The sharpened siderite stopped short of her throat, just above the ghost of a fading wound—a long, thin slit across her pale flesh. Even as he studied the scar beneath his blade it appeared to lighten ever so slightly with each passing moment.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maria demanded. “Do it you coward! Do it now!” Garvan realized what she was doing and dropped to his knees beside her.

“No,” he whispered. The Blade of Mercy fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor with a sound like wind chimes—melodical and mildly ethereal.

“Kill me!” Maria wailed. Tears welled in her eyes again and splashed down her cheeks as sobs bubbled up from her chest. “Garvan, kill me!”

“Maria, no, I _can’t_ ,” he argued, nearly pleading. She started crying harder then, and it broke the man’s heart to see such a strong, confident individual reduced to such despair.

“I tried to do it myself,” she hiccuped. “But the wound just healed over.” Maria’s cap lay off to the side, knocked from her head when Garvan leapt on her. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders wracked with sobs as she poured her sorrow into her palms.

Garvan pulled the helm from his head and dropped to the floor beside him. Reaching out, he wrapped Maria in his arms and pulled her close against him.

“No!” she protested. “No, don’t touch me! I’m a monster! You should be killing me!” Maria protested for only a few moments before she curled up against him and buried her face in his chest. She grabbed a fistful of his jacket in one hand and a fistful of cloak feathers in the other, clutching him desperately while she cried. Garvan cradled the back of her head and stroked her back gently, having never imagined that he even remembered how to comfort another.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours before Maria finally calmed down enough to extract herself from his arms. She wiped at her eyes with the backs of her sleeves and sniffled once or twice to clear her nose.

“I’m sorry, Garvan,” she said. “I didn’t mean the terrible things I said to you. You wrote about Eileen in your journal, and I shouldn’t have used that as bait. That was very wrong of me.”

“It’s ok.”

“It’s _not_ ok.”

“It is not your place to tell me how I feel on the matter. It is ok.”

Maria fell silent after that, unable to formulate a valid argument to return with. Garvan did not mind the quiet, he needed the time to collect himself as surely Maria needed to do the same.

“I can’t just let you pass, Garvan, I’m sorry.” Maria broke the silence suddenly, voice taut and hoarse. She coughed to clear her throat before continuing. “The Nightmare won’t let me. I am compelled as some form of punishment I figure.”

“Then I won’t go onward,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We can stay as we are, no more fighting.”

“No, no you _have_ to go on.” Maria grabbed him by the wrist suddenly, and Garvan met her gaze. There was a supplication in those smoky blues he had never seen before. Just like that his heart felt like it was falling apart all over again. “Garvan, this place is a curse— _my_ curse. We made this when we killed the Great One and murdered its child. This is our fault.”

“Maria I want to _save_ you! There has to be a way!” Garvan felt his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. His throat constricted and swallowing became difficult.

Lady Maria pulled her gloves off and dropped them in her lap. Reaching across the space between them she caressed Garvan’s cheek gently and ran her thumb back and forth across the scruff on his cheek. The Hunter of Hunters closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.

“I know you do,” she said finally. “But the only way to do that is to end this Nightmare. You know me, don’t you? Then you know that I will put the needs of the many above my own.” Maria pulled her hand away and smiled sadly at him. Garvan frowned, brow furrowed, and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“What do you propose?” He asked somberly, knowing already what she would say, but he needed to hear it in her own words.

“We fight one last time,” she said, retrieving his helmet from the floor and dusting it off with her hands. “You and I both know that you are capable of defeating me now, so don’t you hold back.” Maria held out his helmet in both hands. He took it from her carefully, as if handling an injured bird, and placed it back on his head.

Together they rose to their feet and moved to the middle of the room—Garvan retrieving the Blade of Mercy as he passed it. Standing opposite one another she split her Rakuyo and the Hunter of Hunters reached for the hilt of Ludwig’s Holy Blade on his back.

“No, you use the other blade,” she instructed. “When I baited you, the first weapon you reached for was the other one. That appears to be your weapon of choice.” Garvan sighed but complied without protest. He removed the massive greatsword from his back and set it aside. Plunging his hand into his cloak he retrieved the siderite blade and pulled it into two.

“Are you sure about this, Maria?” He asked, hoping that in the final moment her resolve would buckle and she wouldn’t make him go through with their final duel.

“Yes.”

Maria dashed in at him, raining a flurry of blows down upon him with each blade. Garvan used the Blades of Mercy to deflect the incoming steel just enough to dodge through the space he created. Much like the Lady of the Astral Clocktower, the Last Crow had chosen the path of skill and dexterity.

Now on par with the skills of Maria herself, the pair exchanged blows in a flashing waltz of silver and siderite. The clocktower echoed the song of their ringing blades in an eerie choral hymn interrupted only by the grunts and cries of the embroiled combatants.

Maria’s blades found Garvan’s flesh more than once, but in the end it would seem as if his had found hers just a few more times. The Hunter of Hunters captured one of her blades in the hooked backs of his own and yanked it free from her grasp. Before it even clattered to the floor he spun and raked the siderite blades across her stomach.

She cried out, and Garvan immediately regretted the blow he’d dealt; duty be damned, Nightmare be damned, all the other Hunters in Yharnam and beyond _be damned_. Maria stumbled back, clutching at her abdomen before falling hard to her knees. Smoky blues turned up to Garvan, looking expectantly through her white bangs at him.

Snapping the Blade of Mercy back into its single blade form, he approached the kneeling Hunter of old and placed a hand on her shoulder. Garvan drew the short sword back, ready to plunge it into her heart. One heartbeat passed, then two, then three—he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The Hunter of Hunters sank to his knees in front of Maria, hand still on her shoulder. His cloak pooled around him like a giant bird melting into the floor.

“I can’t,” he whimpered feebly. “Maria, I just _can’t_.” The Lady of the Clocktower reached up and removed Garvan’s helm for him this time. She let it roll off her fingertips and clatter to the floor beside them. His eyes brimmed with searing tears that threatened escape at the corners. “Don’t make me, Maria. Don’t make me do this. I-I,” he choked on the last few words, strangled by the emotion in his throat.

“Garvan,” she cooed his name softly. He knew she was trying to urge him onward, but the gentle way she spoke his name did nothing to help.

“I won’t!” he exclaimed. “I’m in love with you, Maria! I love you!” The tears fell in spite of his desire to hold them back—damn them to hell. “I love you.” Garvan repeated his confession quietly, more to himself than to her.

Both of her hands came to rest on either side of his face, and she leaned up to press her lips firmly against his. Garvan went rigid with surprise, unable to do anything but melt into the softness of her kiss.

“I love you, too, Garvan,” she whispered, breaking their kiss. “Which is why I can’t let you give up because of me.” Maria seized the hand in which Garvan held the siderite blade and drove it into her own stomach. He let out a strangled cry when he realized what she’d done and released his grip on the weapon.

“No!” He howled “No, no, Maria, no! Why?” The Hunter of Hunters guided her gingerly to the ground, first reaching to remove the blade then deciding against it. “Gods, Maria, how could you do it?”

“Because _you_ need to end the Nightmare,” she wheezed, struggling to form the words as she began to shiver. “If you don’t, this will be your prison one day, too. End it, set us free.” Maria reached up and cupped his chin. One of the tears rolling down the line of his jaw caught on her fingers and ran down down the lines of her palm. “Save me.” Maria’s hand fell away from his face and dropped to the floor, eyes falling out of focus as the spark of life faded from them. Garvan screamed his anguish to the empty room.

He held Maria close to him, head cradled against his chest as he sobbed. It felt like losing Eileen all over again. No, it was worse, it felt like a part of him had been ripped out and staked to the wall. Garvan spent countless hours getting to know every detail about the woman and twice as many just talking nonsense with her. In this godless, cruel, forsaken place he’d found _love_ , only for it to die in his arms so he could continue his cursed quest to find the heart of this insanity.

***

Maria’s body had gone cold by the time the tears stopped flowing. Garvan’s stomach threatened revolt when he pulled the Blade of Mercy from her and sheathed it on his belt still dripping with her blood. With great effort he overcame the throbbing pain his injuries and scooped Maria up in his arms. Garvan carried her out the large brass doors into the Lumenwood Gardens where he set her down in the grass amid the blossoms. Kneeling beside her, he pulled off his gauntlets and took her hand in his. Maria’s skin felt cold and clammy beneath his touch and a powerful wave of fresh grief crashed over him.

“I’ll save you, Maria,” he whispered. “I will cut the still-beating black heart from this Nightmare and crush it in my hands—be it the truth or damn me to hell as a liar.”

A gust of wind swept across the gardens and plucked the stray blossoms from the grass, carrying them into the sky above. Garvan felt Maria’s hand slip from his grasp, and when he looked down she had dispersed into a bed of lumenflower petals. Another breeze rolled across the garden, and Maria’s lumenflower petals fluttered into the air with the others. They danced on the crosswind, floating higher and higher into the sky until Garvan could no longer see them. He could not imagine a more beautiful sky burial. Maybe, somewhere high above and beyond perception, Maria and Eileen would be watching over him.

In the grass where Maria had lay sat a small glass and brass dial. Garvan took it into his hands and the clockwork began to turn; likewise, the gears and sprockets within the Astral Clocktower whirred to life, groaning against the resistance built by their many years of stagnation. Garvan rose to his feet and turned towards the tower, contemplating the massive brass doors he’d seen so many times before. He looked one last time to the skies and the Nightmare moon still hanging high above.

“ _What are you still doing here? Enough trembling in your boots._ ” He could hear the words Eileen had spoken to him at their first meeting. They still applied; it was the night of the Hunt, after all, and by the pale of the moon did madness and monsters roam free. There was work yet to be done—a Hunter’s work.

Setting off towards the great doors of the Astral Clocktower one final time, the Good Hunter slipped through the gap and disappeared inside.

“ _A hunter must hunt._ ”

The End  
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End file.
